


Hallelujah

by Dizzydodo



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: And Kind of Turn Your Head to the Side, Demisexual Bones, Fluffy Ending, Friends to Lovers, If You Squint - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzydodo/pseuds/Dizzydodo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the day, Jim is never silent. Now, though, he’s quiet and reverential, a man that has found his religion at last.</p><p> <em>Oh.</em> He thinks, and it’s a melancholy sigh even in his own mind because he knows nothing will come of it. Leonard finally recognizes that he loves Jim, wholly and completely in a way someone so free-spirited as Kirk will probably never want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> I think this falls under "T", but I am a notoriously poor judge. If anyone feels this needs to be bumped up to 'M' for profanity's sake, please let me know.
> 
> Also, because I am terrible at titling, the title comes from Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', which is absolutely responsible for this plot bunny.

They're sprawled out at the table Scotty swears doesn't exist. The one that he and Uhura use to play poker every Thursday night, tucked down in the bowels of engineering where only the very brave or very foolish go. Being a little bit of both, Jim had recklessly persuaded Bones to accompany him one quiet night eight months ago, and it has become something of a tradition in the time since to join in a couple hands after hectic shifts.

Regarding his long-time friend across the table, Jim is only now beginning to realize there are still a few things he doesn't know about Bones. Important things. Like where the hell he had learned to count cards and if it was a skill he was willing and able to teach.

"What the hell, Bones, you _cheated_."

"I din't. You're just sore because it's the first week you haven't won in months." Bones smirks at him, lazily tipping his glass back for that final sip of Saurian brandy; if he were any kind of responsible captain, Jim would order Scotty to throw the stuff out, but for these special occasions… no reason a man shouldn't have a few vices.

"Where did you even learn that? It was Chekov, wasn't it? I _knew_ he was too good to be true." Jim inspects his glass, glowering at the bottom as though the force of his glare is enough to fill it up once more.

"Would you believe me if I said that's how my daddy taught me math?" Bones' laughter washes over him, sending a wave of warmth from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. God, he has it bad. Jim prides himself on the fact that after three years of living in the same room, another two aboard the same ship, and a half-dozen Starfleet-mandated physicals, Bones still doesn't have him figured out. He's a fraud is what he is, but so long as they still have nights like this Jim kids himself that it doesn't matter. He can make do.

Jim pushes himself to his feet, stalking around the table to offer Bones a hand. He doesn't need it, neither one of them had more than a couple glasses, but Bones is too much a gentleman to decline and Jim is too needy to pass up the opportunity for these illicit touches. Bones nudges against him companionably as they start off down the hall, a wistful smile still hovering about his lips.

"I guess that's one way of teaching probability."

"A little unorthodox, but effective. You've never seen a kid more eager to sit down and do his sums." Bones agrees, humming contentedly.

Jim knows this mood, though it's one he hasn't seen in ages; after years of acquainting himself with every facet of Leonard McCoy, Jim can safely say these wistful moods are his favorite. It's one of the rare times Bones shows something of the man he was before hopeless desperation made him sign his life away at a recruiting station. It's one of the nights when he's willing to show a soft underbelly, only for a while, only to a good friend, but somehow Jim knows it's Bones at his most honest- and he's honored to be one of the handful privileged enough to see it outside of a medical crisis.

"You going to walk me to my quarters, Bones?" Jim grins, only just realizing that their hands are still tangled and he didn't even notice. _Shit_. He drops Leonard's hand like it's burning plasma, covering his unease with a cough- he doesn't see Leonard's frown, the brief flick of hurt at the corner of his mouth. By the time he turns back Bones is composed, a little more subdued than a moment before, a little more guarded, but Jim doesn't know what could have set him off unless it's just his doctorly instincts kicking in.

"Sorry, I think some spit went down the wrong pipe."

"Charming as always, Jim." Bones snorts, drifting away from him like a planet out of orbit. Jim's smile slips fractionally, he'd been enjoying the warmth of Bones' presence and now suddenly he's a couple degrees cooler and he _does not_ care for it. Testing the boundaries, Jim moves closer again, mollified when Bones doesn't pull away.

"'S that a yes? I haven't had near enough to drink, and there is a bottle of peach schnapps waiting in my cabinet that I may or may not have forgotten to give you for your birthday."

Okay, okay, _not_. Jim prided himself on nigh photographic recall, but he had wanted this to be a gift just between them, hearkening back to late nights at the academy when they had mixed drinks and trash-talked their instructors like champions.

Besides, Bones made the best Sex on the Beach Jim had ever tasted; probably because he still couldn't order one without a blush and a crooked smile that had every woman, and no small number of men, tripping over themselves to be of assistance. Not that Bones ever seemed to notice. What the hell would it take to make Bones notice anyway?

"Peach? I can't say no to that." The gentle smile is back again, not untinged with a nostalgic cast; they share a look of perfect understanding, mischief sparking in blue and hazel eyes.

Yes, _these_ are the moments Jim lives for, and if it's all he can ever have then he will make do. It's better to have too little of Bones than none at all, and Jim isn't about to be the one that jeopardizes this friendship just because his stupid heart doesn't want to admit that's all it is.

 

 

 

They walk the rest of the way in silence or to be more accurate, Jim does, Bones is humming a tune that strikes at a chord in Jim's memory. By the time they reach his quarters Jim has nearly worked up the nerve to ask the name. It's a bright tune, catchy and repetitive, but he dreads breaking this entente between them yet. These precious moods are too rare to squander for curiosity's sake.

Bones strides into the captain's quarters like he owns the place, and Jim can't help but laugh at the offended scowl when environmentals refuse to respond to his curt "Lights, forty percent."

"Let me try. Lights on thirty-five." He casts Bones a shit-eating grin, "The first thing I did was make sure she only responds to my voice; it's called job security."

McCoy snorts, "Your captain's chair is safe, Jim."

"See, you think that, but one of these days the brass will force a promotion on me and I'm going to need all these little tricks to stay."

Bones heads straight for the synthwood cabinet in the corner, digging out the schnapps with a triumphant flourish; "Shall we drink to your forthcoming admiralty? I'll mix."

"Works for me."

Jim makes for the bed, kicking his boots off with practiced ease and laying back to watch the show. Bones will deny it to his last breath, but at heart he is a born performer; he can't resist showing off his dexterity, slinging the glasses around like they aren't fragile as snowflakes, pouring the liquor with a snap of his wrist that is passive-aggressive boasting if Jim has ever seen it. He doesn't even hesitate when he sees Jim reclining against the wall, just climbs right into bed beside him, carefully presenting Jim with his drink and settling companionably beside him.

"It's been years since we've done this. I've missed it." Bones confides, stroking the rim of his glass; it's not meant to be alluring, but Jim can't tear his eyes away from the movement.

There's always been something about Bones' hands that fascinated him; they look so strong, but Bones is always gentle, even when he is poking and prodding the crew to within an inch of their lives. Jim swallows and looks away, hoping his fixation wasn't noticed; there's very little Leonard doesn't see, but he's too much a gentleman to say anything.

It's that damnable courtesy that has always kept Jim from coming clean about this _want_ he feels. Bones is so much more _everything_ than Jim Kirk will ever be, but he'll never believe it because humility is his middle name when it comes to anything besides medicine. How anyone could give this man up Jim will never understand.

"You're awful quiet tonight, Jim."

"Just enjoying the company is all. It's been a busy week."

"I'll drink to that." He suits actions to words, sighing out a heavy breath, "I thought today was never going to end. You remember Coleman? Average height, dark hair, perpetually puzzled expression?"

"Vaguely." Not at all. It's hard to see any of Bones' minions when he has the man himself in his view. Bones has always insisted on treating any of his injuries personally, and that suits Jim fine.

"Well he misplaced the whole damn crate of vaccines for Bolian mumps. We found it three hours later in cold storage- he stashed it with our inactive bacterial cultures. A gifted researcher the kid might be, but I'll be damned before he gets anywhere near _me_ with a hypo."

Jim chuckles, still a little caught up with that twinkle in Bones' eye. "I believe you, but I've got one that blows your Schroedinger's vaccines out the airlock." He smirks slyly, adding the piece de resistance: "And it's about Spock."

Bones slams back the last of his liquor cavalierly,"That calls for another drink. Save my place."

 

 

Jim doesn't know when it happened, sometime between the third glass and the fourth. There _had_ been a fourth right? If not, Jim thinks he needs to get on that. Either way, they're both lying down now, Jim because he's just a little dizzy- okay, his balance is shot to all hell- and Bones because he never could just _sit_ on a bed- the man absolutely _must_ take up every square inch of space he can, it's a universal constant Jim has been dealing with since day one.

"I don't know, Bones, there was just something about her, you know?"

"I know." Bones says laconically, sounding just a little exasperated.

Well, it's not the first time Jim has regaled him with tales of past conquests, it's just the first time Bones has seemed annoyed about it. The tipsy side of his mind whispers that maybe that Bones is jealous, this is _totally_ the time to make a move! Sober Kirk is making frantic shushing noises, because if there's one thing he knows it's that Bones will never see him that way; he's skittish as a fawn when it comes to relationships- Jim has never actually seen the man take anyone home, never been sexiled from his own room because Bones had someone over. It's a crying shame because he's been shit out of luck so often, the universe fucking _owes_ Leonard H. McCoy as far as Jim is concerned.

It takes him a second to realize that frantic shushing? Yeah. He's been doing it aloud and Bones is arching his brow in that way that suggests he's seriously considering scheduling a Psych. Eval. Jim can't handle one of those again; he's been through so many fucking therapists and programs now that he knows all the bullshit he's supposed to say. Fuck. He can feel his eyes tearing up, and now Bones is shifting, rolling over to look him full in the face, taking in his tragic expression at a glance.

"You all right, Jim?"

"'M fine. Just… almost sneezed." It's not the best lie he's ever come up with, and he knows he's not fooling anyone, but Bones lets it slide because somehow he always knows when not to push.

Jim casts about frantically for something else to say, but all his mind can circle back to is the one question he hasn't been able to answer even after five years of dedicated study: "We've been talking about me all night, but what about you?"

"What _about_ me?" A curious tilt of the head, genuine confusion written in the lines of his brow. Some of those are visible even when he doesn't frown now and Jim knows there are mornings Bones looks in the mirror and sighs over his vanishing youth, but Jim would kiss every one if he had the right.

"I understood when we were at the academy; you always had some kind of lab practical or overtime at the clinic, and I get that now you don't want to foul your own nest or anything-"

"What about me?" Bones repeats, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"You never brought anyone back." Jim grins lopsidedly, a sick feeling uncoiling in his gut because the answer is never going to be what he wants it to be, but right now he just has to know if he ever even stood a chance, and if so, how he blew it. "So, what's your type?"

"My type?" Incredulity and bafflement in equal measures.

"You never talk about your ex but I assume she's more than a figment of your imagination. What was so eye-catching?" Jim knows it's a touchy subject even now, he tries to inject a little jocularity into his tone, "I mean, if you could have anyone in your bed _right_ _now_ , what would they look like?"

Bones shakes his head, "I've never liked cutting people up into their individual parts. I always liked to take them whole." He realizes a second too late that could be interpreted far too many ways, and Kirk _will_ take the least flattering.

"That's comforting." Jim snickers, "At least we know you're not the next Frankenstein."

They laugh, long and loud until their stomachs are aching with mirth and tears are leaking down their faces. Bones takess Jim's arm in a bruising grip, his face buried in the soft material to muffle his howls. It wasn't that funny, but neither one of them can be bothered to care.

Jim is the first to recover, mostly because his demons are riding him hard tonight and he _needs_ to hear from his love's own mouth that he still doesn't have a chance or he's going to take that step anyway and ruin this easy feeling between them.

"All right, but really, who?"

He can't read that hazel gaze now, and that's new because James T. Kirk is an expert on all things relating to the many and varied expressions of Leonard McCoy. In his spare time he had even written journal entries about them like some love-sick child.

Then Bones leans over him, arms resting casually on either side of his head, not caging but cradling him. He hesitates, breathing coming only slightly faster than average and all Jim can see is bright eyes, flushed skin, mussed hair… then his eyes drift shut as Bones ghosts the lightest of kisses across his lips, so soft it could almost be a dream except that those gentle hands are cradling his face, thumbs brushing soothingly over his cheek-bones. It's perfect. Everything he always dreamed it would be and more. He had never considered how comforting it would feel, being blanketed by this reassuringly solid weight, and while he'd imagined the brush of whiskers against smooth skin too many times to count, he'd never thought of what it would feel like to have those dark lashes spreading butterfly kisses across his face when they break apart.

All his hours of fantasies can't possibly live up to a single second of what he's just had.

Then the moment is broken, Bones pushes away, scrambling from the bed like it has become molten lava, jamming his feet back into uncooperative boots and speaking to the floor rather than meeting Jim's eyes.

"It's an early day tomorrow, you should get some sleep. Drop by sickbay if you get the hangover from hell, I'll have hypos prepared. G'night, Jim."

And like that, he's gone, leaving Jim alone in the wreck of that perfect moment.

 

* * *

 

Leonard barely manages to make it to his own quarters before he breaks down. What the hell had he been thinking? His _best_ friend, his _captain_. He's a mess and it's little wonder no one wants to shoulder his baggage, some nights he can't hardly carry it himself.

But this, this was so much worse than anything he had ever done before. There was no taking this back and pretending it hadn't happened.

He couldn't even say it was the drink, it was just… Jim lying there, looking up at him with that playful quirk of his lips and the devil in his eyes; it was that peculiar hush that followed their hectic outburst, the darkness of the room and _years_ of unrequited love. And he had fucked it all up.

Jim would never come right out and say he had been uncomfortable: Exhibit A- the way he had laid there so pliantly, so trusting because there was _no way_ he would have expected that from such an old friend. For a split second it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to just lean over and offer a kiss, until he had felt Jim go quiet and unresponsive beneath him. Leonard hadn't been able to bear the accusation he was sure to see reflected in those warm eyes. So, like the coward he was, Leonard had run. Again. It was swiftly becoming his M.O. for coping with emotional upheaval.

Leonard still didn't know what had made him think, even for a second, that Jim might want him too.

Jim had never glanced in his direction back in their academy days. He wasn't the promiscuous party animal rumor liked to paint him, but he had never cared for celibacy either; he had an eye for beauty and enjoyed the flirtatious games cadets liked to indulge in. Leonard had never belonged to that crowd, and he'd never bothered trying to pretend otherwise.

By Kirk standards, he was firmly in the 'old and boring' category from day one, not reckless enough to be a frequent partner in crime, not beautiful enough to run with the fast crowd, and not mysterious enough to excite Kirk's notoriously fickle curiosity. The man was a genius that had probably puzzled him out by the end of their first month together. And all the things that Bones most loves in a relationship- knowing his partner as well as he does himself, the familiar comfort of a loved one's presence in quiet moments, knowing that he will always have someone in his corner and at his back- none of that makes for the torrid affairs Jim favors.

Leonard kicks his boots off, shrugging out of his clothes and flopping down in his bed to stare up at the ceiling hopelessly. Jim is going to forgive him he knows, because it isn't in his nature to hold a grudge and because he counts on his CMO to be an anchor, his one constant in a world of ever-shifting variables. Leonard is just sorry he ever put that at risk.

His mind drifts as he lies there looking up at the ceiling, wondering how much he should tell Jim, wondering if it will change anything at all if he tells the whole story. It would take hours to do it properly, but Jim deserves to know exactly how deep his deception runs.

He knows the exact minute his affection for Jim Kirk turned to something like desire, he knows the very second he realized he could feel more for Jim Kirk than their easy friendship, but it was a long time in coming and constructed of hundreds of other seemingly insignificant gestures.

He thinks of Jim's thoroughly unimpressed gaze when he stumbled out of the lavatory on the transport, scruffy and out of sorts, wearing the same clothes he had on the day before. Jim hadn't looked much better; Len knew dried blood when he saw it, and the yellowing bruises on Jim's face said he had made the acquaintance of a fist several times within the past twenty-four hours. Jim's initial distaste had been replaced with reluctant respect when Len had barked out the many ways they could die before ever touching down; he would never forget Jim's expression when he had offered his flask for the first time- not a gesture Len had taken lightly, who knew where most of these punks had washed up from? But he couldn't regret it, not when he had seen the stark disbelief on Jim's face, the abject _gratefulness_ that he was not alone.

There were the nights he had stumbled home after a shift in the clinic far too late for any sane man to be awake only to find Jim waiting for him, even if his eyes drooped and it was a constant battle to keep his head up.

"Just wanted to be sure you made it back all right." The same words every time, and a smile that no one else ever saw; not the arrogant smirk or the exuberant grin, just a smile. Only that.

There are hundreds of individual seconds captured like holos of Jim laughing or scowling, telling a joke or thumbing blood away from the corner of his mouth because he's not _done_ with that bastard across the sparring square yet, offering a mockery of a salute or quietly stepping up to help Len clean the kitchen after supper. It's these little things he has come to love over the years, all these brief, telling clues that show him there's more to Jim than pure ambition and the relentless drive to prove himself.

Then Leonard drags out that final memory, the one where he knew he was a goner.

_Leonard wakes one night and instinctively looks to Jim's bed. Normally the kid tosses and turns in his sleep, always restless, never still; he talks and grumbles, laughs and sometimes even weeps. The silence is unsettling, and though he knows nothing could have dragged Jim Kirk out without him waking, there is still a moment of panic between sleep and wakefulness where he nearly raises the roof with an alarm. Fortunately his eye catches on the open balcony door before he can do more than draw an unsteady breath._

_He clambers out of bed, joints creaking and popping so loudly he pauses for a second to be sure he hasn't been heard. It feels wrong, almost voyeuristic, but Len creeps to the open door anyway, leaning against the jamb and peering out to see what Jim's got up to._

_He's leaning over the balcony railing with his face turned up to the stars, and Leonard has never seen such naked thirst on a man's face. The lights of the city don't interfere much with the view here at the academy, regulations against light pollution have always been strict- to remind the cadets of what it is they are striving to reach, Len has always thought. Jim never forgot: the boy was born among the stars and the man has been yearning for them ever since._

_In the day, Jim is never silent; there is always some pertinent remark he feels the need to make or a smartass comment sure to land him extra work. Now, though, he's quiet and reverential, a man that has found his religion at last._

Oh. _He thinks, and it's a melancholy sigh even in his own mind because he knows nothing will come of it. Leonard finally recognizes that he loves Jim, wholly and completely in a way someone so free-spirited as Kirk will probably never want. He's never liked to be bound, while Leonard has always taken comfort in the weight of responsibility._

 _Worse still is when he realizes he_ wants _Jim, and it's more than just the arch of his spine beneath a too-thin shirt, more than the moonlight in artlessly tousled hair or the breadth of his shoulders, so obvious now that he's not deliberately curling in to make himself smaller. It's the confidence in his bearing, the trust in his eyes and that peculiar innocence, that need to believe in something greater than himself. Leonard wishes he could be a part of that something, but now isn't the time to say so._

 _He glides back to his bed, mind reeling with the suddenness of this revelation. He is still wrestling with it when Jim creeps in ten minutes later, pausing in the middle of the room to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest for a minute, two, before finally retreating to his own bed. He falls asleep again to the sound of Jim's rhythmic breaths, a smile on his face because he knows this is a man that has seen him at his worst and_ still _cared enough to keep him._

Leonard feels sleep claiming him at last, a peculiar peace coming over him. There is nothing more he can do, and at least he no longer needs to feel like a liar every time Jim throws an arm about his shoulder or pulls him in close for a thoughtless hug. His last secret is in the open between them now.

 

* * *

 

When Jim awakes in the morning he still hurts. Unfortunately it's nothing a hypo can fix, no, this one is purely in his mind and Jim could swear his heart is literally aching. There's a hollow in his gut where the butterflies should be, and his eyes are still hot and dry after a flood of tears he never shed.

He dresses mechanically, replaying the night again and again in his mind's eye. Anger gradually replaces hurt, frustration overcomes longing; Bones ran _again_ , didn't stay to talk it over like the grown man he should damn well be after thirty years and change, didn't follow through on his wordless promise. He'd sneaked off like a thief in the night, and Jim is so fucking tired of being the one left behind; what is it that makes him so _dispensable_?

Ensigns scurry out of his way when he stalks from his room, crew-persons that would normally stop him to chat take one look at his face and beat a hasty retreat. Jim is on a collision course with sickbay and nothing else registers.

Bones isn't there when he finally arrives, and that's probably for the best; the walk has cleared his head some and Jim honestly doesn't want to pick a fight. If Bones doesn't want him that's purely his own affair, he's not going to pull rank and make the man talk. He doesn't want to talk at all, just wants to pretend that everything is as it was yesterday evening before he had to go and throw a wrench in it with his ill-considered question.

His resolve flies out the airlock when Bones walks in, haggard and drawn but impeccably kitted out. His uniform is crisp but that's about all; his hair disarranged enough that he could technically be cited for it, face pale beneath his tan and the hollows under his eyes more apparent. All in all, he's doing a remarkably convincing impression of a hot mess, and Jim is _pissed_ at how easily that gets to him.

He tenses up when Bones starts toward him; he knows the doctor has noticed his reaction because his steps falter for a split second. _Now_ Bones is meeting his eyes, and Jim can't read the expression in his; he can't remember the last time he couldn't see the thoughts that raced behind those wide eyes. Bones has always been an open book for him until now, just another way things are changing between them.

"Jim, you here for that hypo?"

"Sure thing, doc." He tries for a light tone but it falls miserably short. Bones glances around sickbay, counting off their audience probably, and like a good little Southern gent he decides not to air their dirty laundry in public.

Jim blinks, taken aback at the viciousness of his thoughts. It's a tantrum, and not something he had ever expected to find in himself. Even though Bones didn't hear it, Jim finds himself offering an apologetic glance.

Bones is more exact with the hypo than usual; when he finally pulls away his mouth opens and shuts like a fish. Jim ignores that nasty voice again, forcing himself to sit a little straighter and look his _friend_ in the eye.

"We need to talk." Bones murmurs, softly enough that it is only between they two.

Jim feels his face drain of color, setting into stiff lines of disapproval. "No, we don't."

"Jim, what I did-"

"We're not fucking talking, Bones, there's nothing to discuss."

Orderlies are staring, nurses have paused in their work, heads visibly cocked in his direction, Bones' eyes are half-closed as if braced for a disaster.

Faltering, uncertain, Jim reaches out to pat his shoulder, trying for reassuring but pulling away the minute he feels Bones flinching away from his touch. "There's nothing to discuss. It's fine, it's all fine."

He vacates the infirmary in record time, never once glancing back.

 

 

The week that follows is eerily normal, at least from where Leonard is standing. For two days he doesn't hear from Jim, but by the third he has finally worked up enough gumption to make his way to the bridge. Jim greets him with a smile that is all warmth and welcome, not saying a word about how abnormal it is that he hasn't even shown his face here once for over forty-eight hours when usually it would take captain's orders to shoo him back to sickbay.

No one else says a word about it either, not even Spock, though the Vulcan is the only one that will even look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Leonard almost picks a fight just for variety, but suddenly the thought of arguing is just too damn exhausting to carry through. He leaves twenty minutes after he arrives, and only stays that long so he doesn't look a complete fool.

The card game on Friday is noisy and cheerful as ever, Scotty ribs him about losing three hands in a row after his Midas streak before. Jim laughs along, pounding his back vigorously and claiming his place as poker champion of the week just like Leonard said he would if he applied himself. All right. If Jim is willing to forgive and forget he's not about to be the hold-out. Len takes his blows like a champ and proceeds to win back every credit he lost to Jim, only to lose it to Chekov in the last round.

By the time the night is wrapping up, he's feeling secure enough to take Jim's hand when it's offered. He stubbornly refuses to think of the parallel to last week, even when Jim stops before his quarters and turns to offer him a drink.

"You coming in?" Jim's head is tilted at an angle Leonard would call coquettish if he were speaking to anyone else, and he can read to tension in that wide smile. It's a genuine offer, one he didn't expect to hear again, but…

"I better not, Jim. Christine wants my help taking inventory in the morning." It even has the benefit of being true.

"No need to justify yourself to me, Bones, I'm not your keeper." Jim's smile flickers out of existence and the corridor seems to grow dimmer without it. He keys in the code to his room and steps inside with a muffled "Night."

Leonard can't decide if that was disappointment or not. If he had been able to see Jim leaning against the door, cursing himself a blue streak for asking too much too fast, it might have settled the debate for him.

 

 

 

By the end of the month, Jim is forced to retreat. It's a tactical retreat, he assures himself, defeat is not yet certain. How the hell is he supposed to court a man that spends his every waking hour avoiding his captain like he is Typhoid Mary? Not even that, because then Bones would at least be hauling his sorry ass to the infirmary for treatment. Instead he's getting the full course of polite Bones, professional Bones, fucking _passive_ Bones, and it's driving him crazy because he knows it's just a mask but it's one Bones wears well.

It's his fault, Jim knows, that showdown in sickbay hadn't been pretty, but he's sick unto death of Bones having to _talk_ through everything. Jim would like to drop a casual mention of 'action sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,' but Bones would only make a sarcastic remark about that sort of thinking being _precisely_ what gets Jim in trouble all the time. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would just smile and nod like he's been doing for the past four weeks. At this point, Jim's ready to provoke him to a murderous rage if it will get Bones to stop walking on eggshells around him.

It was one kiss. One _kiss_. Jim knows it can't have been _that_ distasteful; he might not have everything Bones is looking for in a permanent partner, but Jim knows he's above average in the looks department. He's also smart, and funny, and if Bones would just repeat his 'mistake' one more time, Jim is more than ready to show him he is a _great_ kisser- it's been his favorite hobby since he was fifteen and Janet Winston dared him to play a game of spin the bottle.

His technique has improved since then, honest.

He arranges their schedules so he can accidentally-on-purpose catch Bones in the cafeteria, he pesters Janice into handing over some of her duties to Bones, making him report on the minutiae of research or minor injuries. For one hopeful second, Bones looks ready to throw a PADD at him, but then he composes himself and drones on about rate of decay and a dozen other things Jim really can't be bothered about because he's too busy watching Leonard's lips shape the words and remembering what they felt like against his own, wondering what they would feel like engaged in other activities.

When Bones still doesn't rise to the bait, Jim becomes worried. It could be that he's misread this whole thing; maybe Bones isn't skittish about relationships, maybe it's this one in particular he's wrestling with.

Jim has heard it before, usually hurled at him when his latest attempt at finding stability decides he's not worth the effort: "You don't give a _damn_ about anything or anyone except your precious ship, the rest of us mere mortals can never compete!" or the ever-popular "It's been fun, but I just don't see it going anywhere. You're not the type to settle down."

There's truth there, he knows it. There is no comfortable suburban home with a white picket fence, two kids, and a Labrador waiting on his retirement; if Starfleet wants him gone they can drag him kicking and screaming from the captain's chair. Until then, this _is_ his home. If anyone could understand that, Jim thinks it would be Bones.

Not that he has a chance to explain any of this with he and Bones playing a game of cat and mouse all across the ship, but Jim knows that sooner or later Bones will broach the subject again. Leonard McCoy has always resented being backed into a corner, chasing him is useless. Jim hopes that if he can just sit still long enough, maybe Bones will come to him.

 

* * *

 

 

As it happens, Bones never does come to him. That's why Jim finds himself in some no-name hole in the wall tavern on Space-Station Four after a routine maintenance check. He's alone tonight, neither Sulu nor Uhura had been inclined to linger once the job was done; they both have lovers to go back to, a warm body to cuddle with- well, maybe not Uhura, Spock's hands are icy as death, Jim would know because he had them clamped around his throat once- but they're both better off than him.

He's starting to feel his drinks, and can see the bartender is considering cutting him off any second now. Common sense says he should head back to the ship, but there's a dark-haired Human in the corner that could almost look like Bones if he squints. Just his luck, the brooding hottie is heading his way. Jim straightens in his chair, offering a come-hither smile that quickly fades when he realizes Hottie doesn't just look like Bones, Hottie is Bones. And he looks fit to be tied.

"Jim, what the hell are you doing in here alone? Ship's protocol says every crewmember- captain not exempted- is required to take a partner on any unofficial business conducted in neutral space."

"Y'almost quoted the manual word for word, Bones. Almost."

He yelps when Bones hauls him up unceremoniously by the back of his uniform, setting him on his feet and tugging Jim's arm over his shoulder. "We're headed back to the ship, doctor's orders. You're courting a serious case of alcoholism here, Jim. Whatever's got you stressed out ship-side is something you need to deal with stat. I'm tired of finding you soused every other night."

"You never bother finding me at all. Hell, you run the other direction when you even hear I'm coming." His voice is loud, and Bones winces theatrically, trying to turn his ear just a bit away. Jim is tired of Bones trying not to hear him.

"What is it about me you find so objectionable, huh?" Jim is rather proud he managed to get that word out. He takes a second to marvel at his own genius before remembering there was more to that thought, "'Zat kiss not everything you thought it was s'posed to be?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bones snaps gruffly, but Jim can feel the new tension in his shoulders.

"You kissed me and you left. I mean, that's a record for me."

"We are not having this discussion now." Bones whispers, and it sounds more like a prayer than a statement.

Jim giggles, "Amen."

"What? No. Never mind. We'll go over this when you're sober."

Jim is too busy watching his feet to respond, his boots are looking remarkably shiny today. Wouldn't Bones laugh if he threw up on them now, shades of their first meeting and all? Bones doesn't laugh with him at the thought, and Jim is unaccountably disappointed.

 

Bones doesn't let him go once they're aboard ship. He walks Jim back to his quarters slowly, pausing every few minutes to adjust his grip on Jim's waist. Jim knows he could probably walk straight, but then Bones would stop guiding him like this, and he's reluctant to surrender the first physical contact they've had in weeks. If he decided to lay down now, would Bones pick him up and carry him like a princess? Jim sighs wistfully, probably not. He'd just call for a stretcher and have Jim confined to sickbay for the night.

The door to his quarters slides open when Bones keys in a medical override. That's another thing they're going to have to talk about, Bones getting so high-handed about this whole CMO thing, but he doesn't think Bones would take him seriously right now.

That thought sends his mood spiraling down as swiftly as it had lifted; Bones doesn't take him seriously at all. Bones thinks he's all style, no substance. If it were anyone else, that would be fine, it's nothing he hasn't experienced before. Uhura still looks at him sometimes like he's still a country hayseed that learned a few nifty tricks, and Jim had seen the same look on his instructors' faces all through the academy. It pierces him when he sees that look in Bones' eyes though, because Bones sees everything, and whatever he sees in Jim isn't enough for more than a guilty kiss after a night of drinking and cards.

Dammit, he's choking up with this nonsense.

Jim drifts in and out of consciousness, too tired to sleep, though it makes no sense as far as he can see. If he asks nicely, maybe Bones will stay the night like he used to. He's trying to figure out the best way to ask when Bones drops down on the the edge of the bed, wresting his boots and socks from his feet, carefully peeling Jim's shirt from his back when he lifts his arms obligingly. He tugs the blankets up, tucking them in, enveloping Jim in warmth.

"Keep one of your feet on the ground. It'll stop the world from spinning."

Jim obeys and it works wonders for his equilibrium. "You're so smart," he slurs, and swears he can hear an aborted chuckle before Bones is moving away, leaving him.

"Bones, wait." The door doesn't open, but he doesn't hear anything either. Jim figures he might as well take the plunge while he still has the guts to do it. "Stay?"

He hears weight shifting, a quiet sigh, "Yeah, Jim, I'll stay."

The bed dips under Bones' weight, and Jim fumbles for his hand in the darkness, thankful when he doesn't pull away. "C'n we talk now?"

"No." There's enough of a snap in the word that Jim grins, recognizing the real McCoy.

"Why not?" He wheedles, playing with the ring Bones never takes off his finger, the one Jim used to twit him for because it's engraved with flowers and sweet words on the inner curve. It comes from his grandma, and Bones won't say more than that.

"You're drunk, I'm upset. You want to talk, we can do it in the morning. Sleep for now."

"You're gonna leave when I fall asleep."

"I won't. Promise."

A sly thought floats across Jim's mind, a way for him to have his cake and eat it too- or Bones, in this instance. "Lay down, then I'll know if you get up."

For a minute he expects Bones to refuse, but then he feels the man clambering over him, curling up on the spot closest to the wall. "Better?"

"Yeah." He's out before he can remember to dim the lights. Bones lies awake for most of the night, staring at the ceiling wondering how he's going to fix this mess.

 

 

 

Jim wakes, and there's no pounding war drums in his head, no nausea or lingering feeling of unease. His eyes narrow on a hypo sitting innocuously on the bedside table; one of these days he's going to have a serious discussion with his CMO about when it is and is not appropriate to administer treatment. As it is, he's just thankful that he's sober.

He stretches out and his hand knocks into something warm and decidedly fleshy, Jim nearly leaps from the bed when he remembers that somehow he conned Bones into staying the night. "Conned" isn't the word for it, Bones is no one's fool, but he worked some kind of magic and the evidence is curled up like a kitten on his bed, naturally hogging the blankets just like Jim had always suspected he would.

"Bones, we need to talk now." A grunt is all the response he receives, so Jim takes a page from his mother's book and yanks the blanket away, tossing it to the other side of the room. "My bed, my rules. Wake up."

"Damnation, Jim, do you have any idea what time we got in last night? Gimme another hour." Bones' eye slits open to regard him malevolently before he rolls over and buries his face in Jim's pillow. It's easy to forget there are serious matters on the table when they're both reliving a mockery of those first few months at the academy.

Jim lies down, giving his best impression of a basilisk stare until Bones is too uncomfortable to stay asleep. "Say what you need to say, Jim, I'm gettin' up." He suits action to words, pushing up out of bed unsteadily and straightening his clothes.

"You don't get to take off this time. Not until I'm satisfied we understand each other."

"That's a new tune considering the last time I tried to start a conversation, you dressed me down in front of my staff." Bones growls. He's angry. Angry is good. Angry means he cares.

"I made a mistake."

"Good. So did I. Now we're on the same page."

Bones stomps toward the door; Jim knows it would be a serious abuse of power that could well be written up, but he has to physically bite back an impulse to call for a lockdown on the captain's quarters. He follows Bones out to the hallway, dogging him so closely he steps on Bones' heels when the man grinds to a stop.

'The hell are you following me for?"

"We can go wherever you like, but I want to talk."

"If it's not ship's business, you don't have the authority to force it." Jim takes it as a positive sign that Bones hasn't started walking again.

"Look, you made a mistake, I made a mistake, we both made mistakes, and now we're doing it again. Can we please just pause for a second and figure this out?"

"What's there to figure out? You made it clear last time that you didn't want to go there-"

Wait, what? For the first time, it occurs to Jim that it might not have been disgust or disappointment that sent Bones fleeing from his quarters like a bat out of hell, just the first of many recent instances where they have ended up on entirely different frequencies.

"And now you're thinking maybe, since there's no one else available, you could use a friend to fill the empty space in your bed. No dice, Jim, I don't work that way and you're going to find yourself sadly disappointed if you're looking for a shipside fling because I'm not capable of it."

It's the funniest thing in the world and Jim doesn't know why. Well, he does, but he gets the feeling it wouldn't translate well outside his own mind; Bones doesn't seem to be taking his laughter well though, in fact he's gearing up to run again, and Jim gets the feeling if he escapes this time there won't be another. So, he takes the first action that comes to mind, twining his fingers in mussed hair and pulling Bones in for another kiss-

Whereupon Bones promptly shoves him away, scowling ferociously. "It's not a game, Jim. You can't have everything just for the sake of a pretty smile and a clever tongue."

Jim's takeaway from all this is that he has a pretty smile, a clever tongue, and that Bones had occasion to notice both. They can work this out, Jim has started with less.

"To be fair, you kind of kissed and ditched first, Bones."

Leonard glances about the hallway guiltily, paranoia reflected in his gaze.

"Let's just take this to your quarters. Please?" Jim wheedles.

It's the please that does it, Bones has always been helpless against an honest plea and Jim suspects there is a part of him that can feel how important this is. He holds his breath until he sees an infinitesimal nod, and then follows Bones back to his quarters, giving him a respectable distance to breathe.

As soon as the door is open Jim has slipped inside, irrationally worried that Bones might change his mind at any second. He can't have that. It feels like he's just had a treasure dropped in his lap that he didn't even know existed, but now that he knows nothing less will do.

It sounds like Bones is saying he wants substance, and Jim isn't sure he has much of that to offer. Realistically, his main attractions are reckless ambition and a body made for sin; Starfleet only cares about the former, and most of the beings Jim has been with in the past only had a use for the latter. There had been exceptions, of course, but all of them had asked more than Jim could give and all of them had left rather than listen to him list the reasons why. He's strangely glad of that now, it leaves him free to pursue this, whatever this is turning out to be.

"Look, Jim, I love you, all right?" There it is. Out in the open, and Jim's not about to let him take it back.

It's not the most romantic of declarations. Bones looks like a tragic hero admitting defeat, there's no slow build up or soaring prelude, they haven't even gotten around to brushing their teeth this morning and Jim knows if someone lit a match they would be risking spontaneous combustion from the reek of alcohol clinging to his clothes.

Clothes. Shit. He's still shirtless, and that leaves him with the option of doing the half-naked walk of shame back to his quarters where a crewmember might see him at any minute or borrowing one of Bones' shirts and staging a victory march back to his quarters that he hopes someone might see for the sake of corroborating evidence.

He glances up sheepishly, but Bones isn't even looking at his bare chest, he's watching Jim's face for a sign of acknowledgment. Evidently he thinks he's got it, because he plows ahead before Jim can interject a word or four, the only four that matter right now.

"You're young and gorgeous and you've got every right to sow your oats-"

"So now I'm gorgeous? I'm failing to see how any of this is meant to put me off, Bones."

"But I'm not gonna be another notch on your bedpost."

"Way outta line, Bones."

Of course Bones believes that, Jim thinks bitterly. Nearly everyone back at the academy had assumed the same; being an incorrigible flirt obviously meant casual was all he was good for. Jim has come to expect that attitude from everyone else, but from Bones he had hoped for better.

They had stepped off the transport together, lived in each other's shadows for years and of all people, Leonard ought to know that Jim is human. That kiss takes on layers of meaning that have Jim itching with distaste because if Bones honestly believes he is that shallow and wants nothing to do with it then why the hell bother?

"Sorry." Bones murmurs, and he looks it, shoulders slumping and face drawing into a frown. Jim bets if he looked up 'apologetic' in the dictionary, Leonard H. McCoy's face would be staring back at him with exactly that expression. But 'sorry' isn't good enough any more, not after four weeks of being ignored, another two of Leonard creeping around like he was looking at being _spaced_ if he talked out of turn. 'Sorry' isn't about to cover it as far as Jim is concerned.

"Let me make sure I have this right. You _kissed_ me, ran like the devil was on your heels, just casually dropped that you fucking _love_ me-" It doesn't escape his notice that Bones winces, recoiling from the word, and that just stokes Jim's temper even more. "But I'm supposed to drop it because you're not okay with anything less than the whole nine yards. What do I have to do to get you to _talk_ to me? Fuck, Bones, just give me a second to _breathe_ before you throw all this at me."

Wonder of wonders, Bones stays silent; what's more, he doesn't run, doesn't even look away from Jim's face. He opens his mouth as though to speak and Jim holds up a quelling hand, still trying to decide what he needs to ask first. Sadly, the best he can manage is a soft, genuinely puzzled "Why?"

"Why what?" Bones asks, and for a moment he has clearly forgotten they are in the middle of an argument because Jim can see the quirk of his lips that heralds a grin. Then he remembers and Jim tenses to block his escape as Leonard steps away.

_Why did you kiss me? Why did you leave? Why didn't you say something sooner? Why did we waste this much time?_

"Why do you love me?" _And when, and are you sure and_ how _?_ Jim has heard often enough that he is more trouble than he is worth to most. 'High maintenance' doesn't begin to cover it, and Bones knows Jim's issues; he's had _years_ to get intimately acquainted with each one. And somehow he still cares, somehow he still wants Jim- or he did, until recently. Jim just wants- no, _needs_ , to know why.

"I don't think either one of us are drunk enough for this conversation."

Jim is going to throw out every drop of alcohol aboard ship. Scotty can protest all he wants, but Jim has already resolved every bottle is going to go if Bones doesn't answer his question. There isn't an admiral in the fleet that will protest.

"Then I'll go." He will, he _will_.

"Don't. Just-" Bones swallows while Jim tracks the movement of his throat with ravenous eyes. "I don't know, Jim. That's the answer plain and simple. I still don't know. But I do."

He shrugs with resignation, and Jim still isn't hearing angels' choirs. He's hearing something much better: truth. Jim has heard the words dozens of times, whispered in the dark, shouted across the square, passed along in cutesy notes… but when Bones says "I love you", it's the first time Jim can recall believing it.

"'N I don't want to lose what we have. So I'd appreciate it if you could just leave this one lie."

Jim considers him for a moment, the sleep-tousled hair and the uncharacteristically neutral expression, the subdued tone of his voice that says all the fight has _finally_ gone out of him. "No. I can't."

Bones startles, eyes widening with comprehension just before Jim does away with the space between them, doing what he really should have done the minute he realized all Bones' sharp edges matched his.

He catches Bones to him, waiting only a split second for a protest or a twitch that never comes; the next moment he lets his arms twine around sturdy shoulders, the ones that always supported him when he stumbled in more ways than one, lets his lips rest against a chin that hasn't been shaved yet, savoring the prickle…

Bones' lips are every bit as warm and soft as he remembers, only this is better because neither one of them is pulling away. Knowing fingers cradle the back of his neck, another arm twining about his waist in a way that is achingly familiar and shockingly new all at once.

It's perfect, stale alcohol, morning stubble and all because Jim knows this is the only way their first kiss was ever going to be.

This time he pulls away first, surprised to see that beneath his tan, Bones' cheeks are darkening, his eyes lighting up with surprise and relief, lips curling into a smile that holds such fondness Jim has to kiss him again, and once more for good measure before he finally steps back.

"What do you say we catch a shower, I find some clothes, and we'll see if we can't figure out between the two of us what makes me so lovable?"

Bones considers for so long that Jim can feel uncertainty building again, what if this was just an interlude? Is he going to wake up and find out this was some sort of alcohol-induced pipe dream? What if-

"I'd like that." He hesitates, grins widely, "But I think you'll need to borrow one of my shirts. Wouldn't want to shock the ensigns."

Jim shrugs, feeling giddy and a ton of other things he hasn't felt since he can't remember when.

"Let 'em wonder. And Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"In case I wasn't clear, I love you too." It's the first time he's ever managed to get all the words out, just when he had begun to think he might not be capable of it. The look Bones gives him just before he starts shamelessly stripping out of his civvies says that's all he ever needed to hear.


End file.
